Ghosts: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse (21 page)

Foley waited for the girls to zip by on their bikes, then
nosed the truck up the gravel drive. At the inner fence Chief delegated the job
of seeing them through to Tran. They followed the same routine at the outer gate
and, while Tran was locking the gate behind them and arranging the wall of camouflage
foliage, Chief hailed Seth back at the compound and Phillip who was up the hill
at the over watch and informed them that he and Foley and Tran would be at the
roadblock for two, maybe three hours at the most.

Glad that the formalities were taken care of by someone
other than him and coming to accept the fact that he was the new guy and thusly
should do what he was told, Foley—though he’d been nearly bald since the early ’90s—decided
to let his hair down a little. Smiling, he wheeled the powerful Chevy west,
aimed the steel brushguard at a pair of rotters loping down the road, and
tromped the gas, saying, “Let’s see what this baby will do.”

“I wouldn’t,” warned Chief. “Gonna piss Daymon off if you
break anything.”

Tran said nothing. Just held onto the grab handle near his
head and braced for impact.

As the engine propelled the truck rapidly from a near standstill
to thirty-five miles per hour, Chief was doing the same. He had his left hand
splayed out on the dash and his other wrapped white-knuckle tight around the
front Apillar-mounted grab-handle.

The speedometer hit forty and Foley pinned the accelerator
to the floor. There was a whine from the engine and the truck reached fifty
just as it entered a stretch of the road where spring runoff had settled the
rock and gravel bed which in turn caused the asphalt to take a subtle dive. At
the bottom of the depression the springs went taut, pressing everyone’s butts
into the seats. On the upslope the suspension unloaded and by that time the two
male zombies had turned a one-eighty and brought their arms up, ready to
embrace the speeding Chevy.

Seeing visions of an infected body lodged in the windshield,
legs kicking like a diver out of water, Foley blinked first. He braked hard and
jinked the truck right; there was a sharp crack and the hollow thunk of cranium
meeting tempered steel. Chief shook his head and grimaced as he saw the damage
the glancing blow inflicted on the undead pair. One stick-thin arm trailing
tendon and veins spun away towards the far ditch. The rest of the creature that
had just lost the battle with the tubular grill guard hinged backwards directly
into the path of the passenger-side tires. A millisecond later the front
quarter panel nailed rotter number two sending it over the truck, head, heels,
head, heels amidst a shower of glass from the destroyed headlight.

Slowing the truck to thirty, Foley said accusingly, “You
made me drive.” He flicked his eyes to the rearview mirror making sure the
gear was intact and there were no unwanted passengers in the bed.

Chief reached over and started the wipers spreading the
clumps of brain on the windshield like a thin greasy cataract. “Juvenile move,
Foley,” he said. “Hit the washer fluid.”

As an electric pump whined somewhere under the hood and a
liberal shower of blue fluid splashed the glass, Foley replied, “At least we
know she’s got some giddy up.”

The radio crackled and Phillip, who had apparently witnessed
the whole thing, said, “Oooh. Daymon’s going to be pissed when he gets back.”

Chief ignored the radio.

Foley said nothing in his defense and after driving in
silence for a few short minutes Daymon’s late summer project, a myriad of
fallen trees and sharpened boughs designed to keep a large contingent of walking
corpses at bay, was blocking the road dead ahead.

“Park it pointing east,” said Chief, racking a round into
his pump twelve gauge. “I’ll get the saws and spare chain. Bring all of the fuel
and oil ... we’ve got a lot of work ahead of us.”

Foley wheeled the truck around with a three-point turn and
killed the engine.

Lugging a backpack filled with food and bottled waters, Tran
exited the truck through the door behind Foley’s and closed it behind him.
Without a word he crossed the road, navigated the ditch, took a seat on the
guardrail and waited.

Foley donned his pack and Chief threw the chainsaw over his
shoulder. They hiked across the blacktop, formed up with Tran and the three of
them entered the forest heading south, perpendicular from the road. A dozen
feet in, Chief hooked a right and they walked for a while, passing a long row
of fresh stumps leaking sap, each one’s circumference bigger around than a
wagon wheel. On their right were the expertly felled trees making up the base
of the blockade.

They walked until they heard the rasps of the dead milling
about the blockade’s westernmost end where the next layer, a phalanx of mainly
smaller lodge pole pines, was to be started.
Lay them down like pick up
sticks, interwoven. The more tangled, the better,
Daymon had said at dinner
the night before.

Chief planned to work both flanks of the road, felling many
of the smaller trees and leaving an interlocked layer atop the entire east-west
run. The theory being that the prolific thicket of branches would inhibit the
still few and far between self-aware first-turns from clawing up on each other
and making their way along the top.

At first sight of the barrier, Tran adjusted his pack and
craned around Foley and asked, “What’s keeping the demons from going around ...
through the forest?”

Chief lowered the chainsaw to the ground and shrugged off
his pack. Placed his shotgun within easy reach. Finally, he motioned beyond the
dead crowded around the pair of SUVs abutting the barrier a dozen feet away. “This
bridge spans a sixty-foot deep gorge. There are dozens of snags and impenetrable
undergrowth flanking the dry riverbed down there. Any rotters that fall off end
up getting trapped.”

Tran stepped up on a fallen log to see the crossing from a
better vantage point. Constructed of poured white cement and taking a gentle
curve away from the break in the treed canopy, the two-lane affair looked like
some kind of public works project from the ’60s. After a few seconds of
scrutiny, he proffered, “What’s to stop a person from picking their way through
the trees?”

“There are no
living
people in Huntsville,” replied
Foley.

Chief added ominously, “But there are thousands of walking
dead.”

“And the vehicles?”

Chief said, “Keys are on the driver’s side rear tire.
They’re gassed up and ready. Just in case we need to go to Huntsville or Eden.”

Tran said nothing. He dumped the pack and, with the shallow
exhaust burble from Chief trying to start the chainsaw exciting the dead, set
off into the woods in search of dinner’s accompaniments.

Leaving behind the southeastern corner of Zion National Park
with its red rock spires and canyons harboring patches of green and rivers that
from the air looked like mere trickles of water, the Ghost Hawk cut across the
northwest corner of Arizona, all of sixty short miles, and then entered
Nevada’s airspace with Lake Mead glittering like polished silver dead ahead.

To Ari’s naked eye it looked as if the lake’s water level
had risen. Still, there were mud flats showing near shore where hundreds of Zs
had become hopelessly mired, no doubt lured there by the staggering number of
personal watercraft anchored in the lake and languishing under the hot sun. On
shore, walking corpses were everywhere. The boat launch beside the deserted
marina was thoroughly snarled with abandoned vehicles, most hitched to empty boat
trailers. And catching Cade’s eye north of there, reminiscent of the scene at
the Flaming Gorge Recreational Area in Utah, was a sizeable campground bursting
at the seams with tents of every size, shape, and color of the rainbow.

Cade walked his gaze towards the lake’s southwest end and
recognized the gently curved top of Hoover Dam jutting from the lake and
silently holding back millions of gallons of blue-green water. That there was
just a trickle spilling out the back side told him the turbines weren’t
operating. Therefore the dam was not supplying electricity to Los Angeles 266
miles away.

Lasseigne tapped the window nearest him. He said, “Check out
the mound of bodies in the spillway south of the span.”

Cross said, “I hope my eyes are deceiving me. Looks like a
whole lot of dead kids down there.”

Cade shifted his attention to the scene passing below.
Running parallel left of the dam and high over the spillway was a four-lane
bridge dotted with inert vehicles, most of which were crowding the railing.
Nothing moved there, living or dead. He noted the mass of tangled bodies and
suddenly it dawned on him what he was seeing. He thought:
No better place to
stop and end it all than one of the Seven Wonders of the World.

Simultaneously coming to the same conclusion, the operators
and SOAR crew went silent. For a few long seconds there was only the steady
resonant whirr of the rotors and various sounds as the mechanicals did their
thing behind the scenes.

Then, for the first time since Cade came aboard, and presumably
to distract everyone from dwelling on what they had just witnessed, the heavily
muscled African American pilot in the left-seat uttered something not pertinent
to the mission. “Who remembers this?” he said. He cleared his throat and, with
his baritone voice rising a couple of octaves, went on, “Welcome everyone, I am
your
dam
guide,
Arnie
.”

“I know what movie it’s from,” said Ari, chuckling. “Hit us
with another quote won’t you please, Chief Warrant Officer Haynes.”

Acquiescing, Haynes said, “Please, take all the
dam
pictures that you want. Now, are there any
dam
questions?”

Playing along, Griffin took his eyes off of the marvel of
modern engineering slipping away to their six and said, “Where can I get some
dam
bait?”

“That’s great, Doc. But who remembers this one?” said Ari.
He cleared his throat. “Where the hell is the damn
dam
tour?”

That one rang a bell, finally, and Cade realized they were
riffing on Vegas Vacation. Not his personal favorite of the series. Sure,
Cousin Eddie was funny in that one. And the Griswold family did get some nice
exotic rides off the casino in the end. But nothing compared to Christmas
Vacation. His train of thought totally removed from the grim scene below the
bridge, Cade smiled, remembering the hilarity that ensued when the Griswold
family went Christmas tree hunting. “Too easy,” answered Haynes, his voice
dragging Cade’s attention back to the previous conversation. “That was Clark
Griswold’s line after he gets separated from the group at the Hoover dam.”

“Bingo,” said Ari. “Next stop, one-armed bandits, no armed
Zs, and the world famous, undead choked, Fremont Street.”

Hearing this, and without fanfare, Lopez unbuckled and
reached into the canvas bag near his feet and came out with a handful of
metallic cylinders. He sat up straight, his body language changing. His jaw
took a hard set and he looked around the cabin, meeting each man’s gaze. He
finished the circuit and stared at Cade and said, “You all have been drilled on
how to use these so I’m not going to repeat the gory details.”

Though he had a good idea what Lopez was up to, Cade still
craned forward to get a better look at what was in Low-Rider’s hand. Each item
was about five inches long, had a screw-on-type lid, and, judging by the dull
sheen and tinny sound they made rubbing together in the Delta commander’s
gloved hand, Cade guessed they were made out of aluminum or titanium or some
other exotic metal.

Lopez handed one to Cade then doled the rest out around the
cabin counterclockwise. Then he rooted in the bag and brought out four more
cylinders and a handful of black heavy duty zip-ties already fashioned loosely
into figure-eight-shaped handcuffs. Silently, he passed the cuffs around then
put one of the cylinders away in his blouse pocket. He looked at Cade for a few
seconds. Finally he handed the remaining three over and said, “All of these are
for you as per whatever agreement you have with Nash. Damn,
Wyatt
. You
must be as good at negotiating as you are with that
pistola
of yours.
‘Cause I heard these things are far from being produced in any kind of large
quantities.”

“They’re far from being perfected, is what I heard,”
countered Cade. “I just pray we’ll never have to use them.”

After concurring with a nod, Lopez looked around the cabin
again, settling his gaze on each man for a tick. Finally, in a no nonsense
tone, he said, “If you get bit you
must
administer the antiserum as soon
as possible. And there’s no need to sterilize the injection site first ... you
get to this point, that’s the least of your worries. Please remember, if you do
not immediately experience the euphoric rush that our egghead friends at
Schriever briefed us about then presume that you are in the lower percentile
and there will be little to zero probability of avoiding Omega’s ultimate outcome.
In the event you have crapped out, so to speak, it is your duty to fight your
way to somewhere safe and practice proper containment procedures. If you
cannot
cuff yourself ... if you’re injured and bleeding out, call for Griff and he’ll
do it for you.”

Worrying the zip-ties in one gloved hand, Lasseigne looked
at Lopez and said, “Copy that.”

Griffin nodded and gazed out the window as the
terror-stricken faces of the soldiers he’d patched up in the field cycled
through his head like a jittery movie. Their eyes darted about, looking for
salvation. To a man their mouths emitted choked pleas for a mercy bullet. But
not before calling out for those already lost. Echoing in his head at all hours
were the specific names of spouses and children and moms and dads. Most were
carried in tortured screams. Some came out in a whisper and a last breath.

Next to Cade, Cross patted the P229 Sig Sauer pistol
strapped to his right thigh and said, “I got my own
containment
protocol
right here. If I get bit and the dose doesn’t take hold, no way I’m saddling
Griff with that responsibility ... not with those kind of long odds. I’ll take
as many of them out first as I can, and save the last round for myself.”

“Hope for the best, bro. At least with the antiserum you’ve
got better odds of surviving a bite than bringing money home from Vegas,” said
Ari over the comms. “And speaking of the Devil ... on our starboard side you
will see, in all of its former glory, the city that never sleeps.”

Noting the ant-sized forms staggering here and there on the
residential side streets northwest of the strip, Cross said, “The city that
never dies is more like it.”

“Beat me to it,” said Ari, faking a rim shot by tapping his
index finger on his mike. Then, in his best Andrew Dice Clay, added, “What
dies
in Vegas ...
stays
in Vegas.
Ohhhh
.”

Cade was looking out the window and marveling at the
contrast between the red tiled roofs—which seemed to be the norm for Vegas’s
suburbs—and the glimmering aquamarine waters of hundreds of swimming pools. He
grimaced at the bad joke but said nothing because he knew how far a little
levity went towards keeping one’s sanity intact in the face of so much wanton
death and destruction.

“You’ve got the stick, Haynes. I want to work the FLIR pod,”
Ari said.

“Copy. Taking the stick,” Haynes stated coolly.

Ari’s hands flew over the touch screen monitor, pressing the
appropriate pixelated buttons to engage the gimbal-mounted optics pod. He
thumbed the hat switch to the right. Consequently the pod panned right and the
distant mountains gave way and the Vegas skyline graced the color monitor to
his fore. He zoomed in a few stops and informed the
customers
in back to
watch their flat panel because they would soon be seeing
Lost Wages
up
close and personal, closing with his customary,
‘Courtesy of Night Stalker
Air
.’

As Haynes nosed the Ghost Hawk smoothly south by west, Cade
removed the satellite phone, glanced at the screen and saw there was nothing
new. No text. No voice mail. So he slipped it back into his cargo pocket, glanced
up at the large rear-facing monitor above the crew chief’s seat and saw in full
color and with outstanding clarity the Vegas strip in all its gaudy splendor.
From a trip there in 1998, a month before he and Brook were married, Cade
vaguely remembered a hotel with crazy fountains out front and a circus-themed
casino complete with three rings laid out inside a vast high-ceilinged
building. In his mind he could still see the towering Luxor pyramid and the eye
candy that was Treasure Island with its staged battles between damn near
life-sized pirate ships simulating cannon fire on a lake of water fronting
another mega monument built with gambling revenue.

But the one thing that would forever stick with him on that
first visit to Sin City was how stupid wasting hours and hard earned money
inside a windowless air-conditioned dungeon seemed to him.

Brook, on the other hand, let her hair down and lost a
whopping twenty dollars before her better judgment kicked in and she began
bemoaning the fact they’d gone to the
‘armpit in the desert’
in the
first place. ‘
Disneyland would have been a wiser choice,’
she had said
at the time.

A sentiment to which Cade had instantly and wholeheartedly
concurred.

Now the entire place seemed radically altered. He was nearly
blinded when Ari trained the camera on a number of buildings skinned with more
mirrored glass than he thought existed. There was a copper-hued slab of a
skyscraper, its entire southeast side lit up marvelously by the high-hanging
sun, and emblazoned prominently on the top floor, but almost lost in the glare,
was a sign with huge gilded letters spelling out the name TRUMP.

“You’re fired,” said Ari, chuckling.

Griffin covered his mic and leaned towards Cross. “Is that
guy ever serious?” he asked, shooting a glare towards the cockpit.

Smiling, Cross looked the question at Cade.

“He’s all business ... most of the time,” replied Cade, the
crash in South Dakota still fresh in his mind.

“I’d ride into hell with him,” said Lopez. He crossed
himself and motioned for Cade to take the open seat next to him.

Without hesitating, Cade unbuckled and took a seat. Said,
“What’s up?”

Lopez unplugged Cade’s comms, then did the same with his.
Cupping a hand next to Cade’s ear, he said, “What’s your take on the intel?”

***

Two minutes later Vegas was behind them. However, the images
of the car-choked strip, bloated bodies floating in the fountains and
waterparks, partially burned skyscrapers with curtains flapping from their
broken-out windows, and the tens of thousands of Zs still caught in the city’s
gravitational pull would be forever imprinted in the Delta team and SOAR
aircrew’s collective memories.